


Touch

by canticle



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Anal Fingering, Awkward First Times, Boys Kissing, Hand Jobs, M/M, Massage, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possible Spoilers, ann is the best wingman, i didn't actually realize those were tags, note the rating change whoops;
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-01 22:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10931406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/canticle
Summary: How Sakamoto Ryuji Gets His Groove Back: a duology(sequel to caught red-handed)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is a sequel to [ this story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10873458) pls read that first!!

Ryuji’s in trouble with a capital T, and he knows it.

His—whatever it is he’s got going with Akira, it’s not like they’ve put a label on it, what even would you call “my best friend who also sometimes pins me down and jacks me off”??

…Though sometimes these days it’s less “pinning” and more “lazily making out on Akira’s futon until Ryuji all but creams himself in unfulfilled sexual exasperation.”

(That’s not his phrase. That’s Futaba’s. And a conversation Ryuji never wants to revisit.)

Either way, it’s trouble. It’s a problem. A problem that isn’t really a problem, or so Ann keeps telling him whenever he makes the mistake of exposing his tender underbelly to her claws.

 

 **Ann:** It really isn’t that difficult, y’know.

 **Ryuji:** look u dont get it

 **Ann:** What’s not to get? He’s gotten you off how many times by now?

 **Ryuji:** lost count

 **Ann:** Liar.

 **Ryuji:** seven

 **Ryuji:** but one didnt count

 **Ann:** God, Ryuji, you owe him like, four blow jobs by now.

 **Ryuji:** who died n made u queen of the hj/bj ratio

 **Ann:** No one, it’s my God-given right!

 **Ann:** That also makes it my right to tell you that you suck, and you gotta step up your game.

 **Ryuji:** u know who sux? u

 **Ann:** Yeah, sometimes. It’s not half bad.

 **Ryuji:** why do u gotta be like this

 

It’s not about the sex, though it’s a damn sight better than anything Ryuji’s ever managed with his own hand, up to the point where he’s starting to wonder if he’s ruined forever. Nothing’s gonna compare with Akira’s long, cool fingers wrapped around him, glove or no glove.

It’s just—Ryuji’s never managed to _reciprocate._

He’s not scared to. In fact, he kinda wants to.

Kinda a lot.

But half the time Akira is more than happy to just dish it out, sprawled across the sofa in Leblanc’s attic with his legs tangled in Ryuji’s, content to kiss him till he’s out of breath and then slide his hand down Ryuji’s chest and blow his mind. And Ryuji—he’s _nervous,_ still so nervous and awkward to do more than try and chase his movements, and Akira is always a step or two ahead of him.

Their lazy Sunday afternoons always end with Ryuji limp and boneless and Akira nonchalantly wiping his hands clean with a tissue drawn from the box on the nightstand, and by the time Ryuji’s come back to himself enough to want to reach out, Akira’s halfway across the room with a cup of coffee, or kneeling in front of the tv to change the movie.

The kissing is…nice. Ryuji’s not used to being so close and intimate with _anyone._ Shit, he stopped getting hugs from his mom _years_ ago, and it’s not like he’s had a girlfriend to pal around with. The casual touches of the track team are a long-distant memory at this point too, no longer soured, just wistfully nostalgic.

Akira’s so willing to provide that, it’s almost overwhelming.

He never thought Akira would be such a touchy-feely sorta guy, but after that afternoon in Mementos (and shit, Ryuji’s face still heats up whenever he thinks about it, almost a month later) Akira’s almost always up in Ryuji’s personal bubble. An arm across his shoulders, a hand on his wrist, legs thrown across his lap; in their moments alone, a chin on his shoulder or the crown of his head, Akira’s cheek pressed against his, his breath hot in Ryuji’s ear as his hands slip under Ryuji’s shirt.

Akira is a force of nature, and who is Ryuji to stand in front of a typhoon?

At least he’s not staring at Joker’s gloves anymore, either.

(There’s a pair in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Neither of them ever mention it once they’re cleaned off and tucked away. Ryuji, at least, is almost always intimately aware of their location.)

 

 **Ryuji:** its not like i dont wanna, dont get me wrong

 **Ryuji:** hes always so in control, yknow

 **Ryuji:** i wanna know what hes like when hes not

 **Ryuji:** but hes too busy bein competent n leaderly

 **Ann:** And having his hand on your dick.

 **Ryuji:** yea that too

 **Ann:** As much as I enjoy the gritty details of your sex life, it’s two in the morning.

 **Ryuji:** yea so??

 **Ann:** Are you incapable of honesty at normal hours of the day?

 **Ryuji:** thats a dumb question nd u know it

 **Ann:** Yeah, why did I even bother.

 **Ryuji:** sides its Saturday night its not like ur doin anything better

 **Ann:** Got me there.

 

 

The first time Akira had touched him out of Mementos, it was over almost as soon as it started. Ryuji still cringes when he thinks about it; his back pressed to the wall in Akira’s attic room, whole body curled around the hand still kneading between his legs—shit, Akira hadn’t even had his _zipper_ down yet, but the memory of the first time and the little smirk tilting Akira’s mouth—

He’d kissed Ryuji after, just a quick brush of lips against Ryuji’s cheek, and sent him into the bathroom to clean himself up.

And after, after Ryuji’d composed himself and came out with some half-cocked plan to at least turn the tables, Akira had just sprawled out on the futon and flopped his head in Ryuji’s lap like some sorta overgrown cat, easy as you please.

His hair was so soft. _Is_ so soft. He hates how gay it sounds, but he just wants to bury his hands in Akira’s hair forever, tug and touch and card his fingers through until Akira makes that sound, that quiet wordless groan of content that sinks right down into Ryuji’s stomach, warm as embers.

It’s routine now, especially after. Akira never asks for anything but this, and even then he doesn’t ask so much as demand.

Ryuji’s only too happy to give it to him.

Especially today.

It’s sweltering, even an hour past sundown. The A/C unit in the window chugs pitifully, and the ceiling fan barely stirs the air. Ryuji’s stripped down to just his shorts hours ago, a towel soaked in cold water draped around the back of his neck doing next to nothing to cool him down. Akira lounges on his stomach in front of the sofa, still stubbornly in his black undershirt and full-length jeans, though he’s rolled them up his calves at least.

Ryuji can see where sweat makes the hair stick to the back of his neck and darkens in the hollow between his shoulder blades. “Dude,” he grunts, pulling the towel off his neck and dropping it onto Akira’s head. “How aren’t you dying?”

“Superior genetics,” Akira murmurs in response. “Iron self-control.”

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah. I’m dying.” He sighs and rolls over onto his side, letting his shoulder bump into Ryuji’s ankle. “I never packed any summer clothes. When you’re not here I just…hang out in my boxers. Morgana doesn’t mind. Or at least doesn’t mention it.”

“You need shorts,” Ryuji says decisively, as if even that tiny bit of contact isn’t setting his nerves jangling. Not even in a bad way.

“I need air conditioning that works. And a pony.”

“You got a pony. Ponysona. Thing. I saw you use it the other day.”

“It’s not the same, Ryuji. I can’t ride it into battle.”

“Would you even wanna? It’s pretty gross.”

“I’m pretty gross.”

“Nah. Just pretty.” The words slip out before he can help himself.

Akira actually lifts himself up onto one elbow, eyebrow raised, and Ryuji sorta wants to die. He can explain the blush away on the heat. Or could have, if Akira had just stopped _looking_.

But he’s _still_ looking. And the longer he looks, the more unnerved Ryuji gets. “What?” he finally blurts out. “Do I got somethin’ on my face?”

“You think I’m pretty,” Akira says, and the look on his face turns very, very smug. “I didn’t know that blush went so far down.”

“Aw, man,” Ryuji groans, and Akira _laughs_ , hefting himself up fully to press the cold towel back into Ryuji’s hands. “’S not my fault.”

“Course it isn’t,” Akira says with a grin, fanning himself with his hand for a moment. “Look….would you mind if I—“

“You could’ve hours ago, man.”

“Great,” he sighs, and pulls his shirt off in one swift motion.

Ryuji does his best to stare in the opposite direction.

Look, it’s not like they haven’t been in the baths together before—multiple times, even!! It’s just—there’s a difference between the bathhouse and being alone together in Akira’s room, with Akira _casually shucking his pants off right in front of him_.

Dude’s wearing boxers with cats on them. Morgana must laugh himself hoarse every time he sees them.

They cling really nicely to his ass.

Which is not a thing Ryuji is actively looking at.

Nope.

Not even a little.

Not even when Akira bends down to pick up his discarded clothes to lob into the hamper.

It’s always surprising to Ryuji to see how toned Akira is. He’s not whipcord-thin like Yusuke, but not heavily built either. He’s got this sorta subtle muscle all around, always hidden under his clothes.

He’s also got scars dotted here and there on his upper arms and torso, places where wounds from the Metaverse didn’t heal fast or straight or smooth. The most recent one is in the small of his back, a ragged star-shaped one, still pink and flush with healing.

Ryuji’s fingers are tracing the edges before he has a chance to even consider what he’s doing. “This was a nasty one,” he murmurs; the hit had knocked Joker flat on his face for a few seconds that had felt like an eternity, and he’d limped all the way to the nearest safe room before they could patch him up.

Akira’s gone still and quiet under his touch, a full-body shudder running up his spine and making the hairs on his arms stand out straight. “Is it bad?” he asks. His voice sounds a bit weird; Ryuji looks up sharply, but of course he can’t see his face.

“Nah,” Ryuji says after a second. His fingertips linger, brushing against the surface of the scar, and Akira shudders again, shoulders drawing up tight. Shit. “Did that hurt?”

“No.” His voice is strained, though. “It just tickles a bit. Not usually a place that people have their hands, you know.”

Ryuji makes a noise of agreement and slips forward, his other hand coming up to rest on Akira’s hip. It’s a bold move, far bolder than anything he’s ever done, but as long as Akira isn’t looking at him he can do it. “You sure? Looks tender.”

“ ‘M sure.” He sighs a bit as Ryuji’s knuckles brush along his spine, tracing the faint indents of his bones. “If I was in any pain, which I’m not, I have a whole drawer full of unusually effective medications that I can take.”

“Yeah, but would you?” Ryuji asks, his fingers wandering higher. There’s a paler splotch under his shoulder blade that needs investigating, and the faintest line of claws down his ribs. There’s nothing but muscle on Akira’s frame, no spare ounce of softness. He’s been whittled down to something deadly and effective. A weapon.

He realizes that Akira never answered him at the same time he realizes that Akira is tense and motionless under his hand. He freezes too, unsure whether to yank away or press into him, surge forward or retreat.

The problem is solved when Sojiro yells up the stairs for them.

 

 

 **Akira:** I don’t know how much more forward I can be.

 **Akira:** Ann, I stripped in front of him.

 **Ann:** Two things

 **Ann:** 1) I can’t believe you actually took my advice,

 **Ann:** 2) You’re both hopeless and will never get satisfactorily laid.

 **Akira:** I don’t think that’s a word.

 **Ann:** It’s 2 AM, it’s a word.

 **Ann:** Why can you two never have conversations at normal hours??

 **Akira:** Real phantom thief hours. Smash that mf react.

 **Akira:** I’m exhausted.

 **Ann:** Listening to you is exhausting.

 **Akira:** you cut me real deep, ann. i thought we had something.

 **Ann:** ily 2 bby

 **Ann:** But for real, have you used your words???

 **Akira:** Who do you take me for, Yusuke?

 **Ann:** True. That was a dumb question.

 **Akira:** Real men never talk. They just…grunt. And point.

 **Akira:** The callouses on his fingers feel really nice.

 **Ann:** You’re HOPELESS!!!

 **Akira:** Yeah. I know.

 **Akira:** But the last thing I want to do is pressure him.

 **Akira:** He can go at his own pace. I’ll wait for him.

 **Akira:** I love him.

 **Ann:** I know.

 **Ann:** You two deserve each other. Go make gross gay oblivious babies.

 **Akira:** Only if you’re their fairy godmother.

 

 

The feel of Akira’s skin, smooth under his fingertips, haunts him.

Not to the extent that the gloves did, thank fuck, but Ryuji’s still spacing out every now and then, the merciless heat of the summer crushing any urge he has to get up and move around. It leaves him too much time to lie in front of his fan and think.

But he’s never been very good at thinking.

So the next time he’s over at Akira’s, both down to nothing but their shorts again and bickering over what to watch, once Akira settles down on the floor with his back up against Ryuji’s knees, he acts.

About ten minutes into X Folder, heart in his throat and pulse pounding in his ears, Ryuji drops his hand onto Akira’s bare shoulder.

It’s…anticlimactic. Akira just leans back into his touch like it’s normal, shifting to rest his head on Ryuji’s knee. Doesn’t even say anything, just keeps his eyes on the tv.

It’s encouraging. He runs his fingers along the line of Akira’s shoulder, down to his arm and then back up again, chases the whorl of his ear, tucks some of his stupid soft hair behind it. Inch by inch he feels Akira slump harder into him, relaxing boneless and comfortable, until he prods a spot too hard and he flinches. “Stiff neck?” Ryuji asks, mouth dry.

“Slept wrong.” Akira’s voice has the tiniest hint of roughness to it. “It’s fine.”

“Might be able to fix it for you. If you want.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I, uh—when I was on the track team, we’d give each other a hand. With stiff—sore muscles. Pretty common.”

Akira hums, bonking his head back into Ryuji’s knee. “Alright. How do you want to do it?”

“Phrasing, man,” he mutters, and Akira laughs once, low and warm. “Just…lie down on the floor. On your stomach.”

Akira laughs again but thankfully doesn’t comment, just slides boneless to the floor and pillows his head on his arms. Ryuji slips down to straddle his waist, very pointedly not touching down. “Just don’t move, kay?”

“Kay.”

Ryuji gets to work.

It’s been a long time since he’s given someone a massage, and usually it was just for a hand cramp, or a sore calf. Things don’t usually require laying down on the floor. But Ryuji’s not planning on stopping at a neck massage.

He starts slow, thumbs digging into the base of Akira’s neck and sweeping down with firm, even pressure, feels Akira twitch under him. Over and over again, smoothing the knot out of the muscle, until Akira lets out an abrupt sigh and melts a bit.

_There we go._

He moves out, uses the heel of his palm down Akira’s back, kneads at his shoulders, rolling and pressing and smoothing until Akira is limp as putty under his hands, tiny noises of contentment slipping out as if he can’t muffle them. They’re nice noises.

Too nice. Ryuji’s glad their only point of contact is his hands right now.

He’s down to the small of Akira’s back now, the pink of the scar there already fading to silver, already joined by two or three tiny new ones that’ll be gone in days. He’s struck with the sudden urge to kiss them. Instead he just brushes his thumb against them, and almost gets thrown off by Akira’s full-body shudder. “Shit, sorry!” he yelps, shoving himself to the side. “Did that—“

“You’re fine,” Akira mumbles—shit, his voice sounds like _gravel_ —shaking his head. “Please. Continue.”

When Ryuji looks closer he sees the tips of Akira’s ears are red.

He also sees Akira surreptitiously shift his hips, the tiniest motion, but one his eyes are immediately drawn to. Is—

Yeah. He does it again. He’s—holy hell. It’s now or never.

Ryuji smooths his hand down Akira’s back once more—it’s familiar territory now, he’s comfortable—hesitates, and then hooks his fingers around his hip, dipping under the curve of his body, brushing the waistline of his boxers. “H-hey.”

“Mmm?” Akira tilts his head but doesn’t look up.

“I—“ He tugs, the slightest pressure, and Akira rolls for him, lets his fingers dip down across the skin of his stomach, the long flat planes of muscle there, until he brushes against the sparse trail of hair leading—

“Yeah,” Akira breathes, barely more than a sigh, a puff of air. “Ryuji—“

“Don’t look,” he all but begs, and Akira nods, rolls fully over and throws his arm across his eyes.

Shit. Ryuji’s mouth goes even drier. It’s obvious Akira’s been hard for a while, judging from the wet patch. His fingers linger on Akira’s stomach, barely in contact. This is it. He’s got this.

“Please,” Akira breathes, barely audible.

His fingers drift down.

It’s both familiar and not; Ryuji’s touched himself like this uncountable times, but without the accompanying pleasure it’s like he’s flying blind. Akira twitches under his fingers as he strokes down and then back up, with fingers and then his full palm, pressing down. When Ryuji glances up, every part of Akira’s face he can see is red.

He doesn’t know why that gives him courage, but it sure as hell does, enough to slip his hand into the fly of Akira’s boxers and draw him out fully.

And, _shit._ It’s not like he’s never seen dicks before. It’s not like he’s never seen _Akira’s_ dick before (hello, bathhouse, everyone looks, it’s a thing), but he’s sure as fuck never seen it like this, flushed and swollen and eager.

Because of _him._

Akira’s mouth falls open at Ryuji’s first full-hand stroke. By the sixth or so his hips are trying to chase the motion, tiny aborted movements; by the time Ryuji’s lost count Akira is panting, his free arm flung over his mouth, trying to muffle his choked-off noises.

It’s _exhilarating._

Ryuji’s never been more aware in his life—the tv still making unimportant noises in the background, the fan creaking at every rotation, his skin prickling like it does when Captain Kidd throws a smackdown on some Shadows—and holy shit, Akira’s moans overshadow it all.

It’s like that time he filched some beer from the corner store and chugged it all in about half an hour—the world feels surreal and strange, like a film over the real one that’ll be torn away as soon as he thinks about it too long. He doesn’t want that. He wants this to last forever.

Akira lets out a gasp and drops the arm covering his mouth, his hand covering Ryuji’s. “I— _Ryuji—_ “

Somehow, he knows. “Yeah, do it, go on, I got you—“

And shit, he’s _gone,_ back arched, biting his lip so hard Ryuji sees blood, striping their joined hands and painting streaks up Akira’s stomach.

It’s a mesmerizing sight. Ryuji’s hand moves on autopilot, snagging the tissues barely an arm’s reach away; he wipes Akira’s hand clean before his own.

It’s almost too silent after, even with Scullsy’s disparaging anti-alien commentary behind them, even with the low rattle of the A/C unit finally kicking into gear. He drops the crumpled tissues in the trash can by the sofa. When he turns back Akira is looking at him.

There’s just this hint of vulnerability in his gaze, face still flushed; he lifts his hand to touch his lower lip and winces. He opens his mouth and closes it again, shakes his head.

Stretches his hand out and drags Ryuji into a hug.

And Ryuji goes without a second’s thought.

 

 

 **Ann:** So a little birdy told me somebody got handsy today during Netflix and chill ;)

 **Ryuji:** the fuck its only been like 2 hrs

 **Ryuji:** do i gotta ask why ur talkin about this shit w akira

 **Ann:** Why wouldn’t I?

 **Ryuji:** y cut me real deep

 **Ryuji:** thought we had somethin special

 **Ann:** Oh please, you’re my side ho.

 **Ryuji:** harsh!!!

 **Ann:** It’s okay, so is Akira.

 **Ryuji:** o thats ok then

 **Ann:** For real, how was it?

 **Ryuji:** hot

 **Ann:** Nice.

 **Ryuji:** not what i was thinkin tho

 **Ann:** ?

 **Ryuji:** like

 **Ryuji:** when it was me

 **Ryuji:** i could barely think after

 **Ryuji:** and like 5 seconds l8r hes up and doin stuff

 **Ann:** Didn’t blow his mind well enough?

 **Ryuji:** he said it was good!!!

 **Ryuji:** thats good

 **Ann:** Okay, but you said yours was mind-blowing.

 **Ryuji:** fuck ur right

 **Ryuji:** ann u gotta help me

 **Ryuji:** next time has to b better

 **Ann:** I don’t even need to pay for cable anymore, you two are all the entertainment I need.

 **Ann:** Of course I’ll help.

 **Ryuji:** but not physically

 **Ann:** Gross.

 **Ann:** So, here’s what you’re gonna do…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got rapidly out of hand

**Akira:** And then he told me I’d best not be using them to pull a prank.

**Akira:** What does he think I’m gonna do with a toy whip and a fake dagger?

**Akira:** Oh, and a pair of brass knuckles.

**Ann:** He probably thinks you use them in your secret sex dungeon.

**Akira:** Oh, right, the secret sex dungeon. How could I have forgotten about the secret sex dungeon.

**Akira:** It’s got all my secret sex in it.

**Ann:** You don’t have any secret sex.

**Akira:** This is true.

**Akira:** You nosy bint.

**Ann:** <3!

**Akira:** Alright, he’s back. Think he’ll spit it out?

**Ann:** I’m gonna give you… 5:1 odds on no.

**Akira:** Holding you to that. Still haven’t tried those chocolate and strawberry crepes.

It’s plain to see that Ryuji’s got something on his mind.

He’s been shifty and odd all week, something Akira regards with affectionate suspicion. It’s not like that time that he was, in Ann’s terms, “being super gay over his gloves”—no, that was something all-consuming, something that wouldn’t let Ryuji so much as meet his eyes.

This is something softer, something craftier, something that keeps Ann giggling whenever he tries to pry it out of her.

(He’s well aware that she and Ryuji have the same sort of discussions that she and himself do. He welcomes it. Ryuji deserves the support network, and Ann deserves all the gentle fun she can poke at the both of them. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve a friend like her, but he’ll be thankful for it eternally.)

Now that Ryuji’s breached the distance between them, now that things aren’t as one-sided, now that Akira knows he’s not pushing himself hopelessly at him, things are…nice. Their teamwork is unparalleled, in Mementos and out of it, and Ryuji spends as much time at Leblanc as he does at his own house. The others come around three or four times a week as well, either for study groups or for casual meetings; Futaba in particular is always hanging around now, trying to rank up her socialization skills, eating Sojiro’s curry by the pot, and being adorably demanding.

He’s never considered what it’d be like to have a younger sibling before. The idea is growing on him.

Also growing on him? Ryuji’s clumsy attempts to continue reaching out.

It’s like he’s trying to inure himself by exposure, desensitize himself to the concept of touch. It makes Akira want to wrap him in his arms and squeeze the living daylights out of him. He’s almost done it once or twice, barely managing to stave off the urge by settling for clapping him on the shoulder or threading his fingers through his hair.

Although it’s taking some time for Akira himself to get used to it too.

He never realized how much of a solitary existence he’d lived, even back home. His friends had been nice enough (though none of them had contacted him since he’d moved, probably unwilling to risk the small-town stigma of associating with a _criminal_ ), his parents distracted, detached. Life had been quiet, peaceful. Boring.

Until that night.

He doesn’t like to think about it, even now. It stokes the low-simmering fury ever-present beneath his breastbone, makes him reckless, vengeful, makes the personas in his heart bubble and seethe. Even if it brought him here.

Even if it brought him Ryuji, and Ann, and Yusuke, Makoto, Futaba. His friends. His team.

He loves them all with a furious depth that sends him reeling sometimes. They’re _his._

Ann gets it; sometimes he gets a sense that she feels the same way, bound by adversary and collaboration, bonds forged in fire and blood. Yusuke doesn’t, but that’s okay; Yusuke’s heart dreams on things more wild and grand than the rest of them can imagine, and they’ll be there to support him every step of the way, just as he will for the rest of them.

Makoto… He thinks Makoto gets it, though her loyalties are pulled in two; found family versus blood. Her sister is a ghost hanging behind her shoulder, and everyone can see it. Futaba is still too new, too scared, but she’s getting there. She trusts; she fell into their arms shattered and fragile and they remade her, helped her remake herself, helped her rise from her own ashes like a phoenix.

He thinks she’ll understand, once she puts her mind to it, free from the shadow of her mother’s wrath.

But Ryuji… Ryuji’s been his since they stepped foot into the Metaverse together, whether he’d known it or not. Or maybe even before, standing under the awning together avoiding the rain, two ships meeting at port, sheltered from the storm. Ryuji’s been there since the first, had backed him without hesitation.

He hopes Ryuji’s starting to understand. He’s done his best to show it without being overwhelming (aside from that lapse in the Metaverse.)

(And, uh, every time after.)

After that display a few weeks ago, he really thinks Ryuji might.

“ ‘S on your mind?”

Akira nearly jolts out of his skin as Ryuji’s hand comes down on his shoulder. “Nothing really,” he shrugs, tossing his phone onto the bed and turning to face him. He’s got a tiny furrow between his brows that makes Akira ache to smooth it away with the pad of his thumb. “Just clearing my schedule.”

“Just for me?” Ryuji quips, smirking a bit. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Yes. Routinely. Just ask Futaba, she’s probably tapped my phone by now.” It immediately vibrates where it lays face-down on a pillow and the two of them jump. “I…hope that’s not her.”

Ryuji turns it over like it’s a venomous snake. “Nope. Mishima with another lead. You’re good.” He lets it drop and turns back to face Akira, unusual determination clear on his face. “So. You said Boss is gone for the afternoon?”

“Left to go sample some new types of coffee beans, yeah. Why, did you need him for something?”

“Nah. Just…wanted to make sure.”

That’s a loaded phrase if he’s ever heard one. Akira hastily composes his features into neutrality. “He won’t be back at all this afternoon; I’m pretty sure he’s going to head straight home.”

“Okay. Awesome.”

 

 

 

**Ryuji:** okay

**Ryuji:** im gonna do it

**Ann:** I’m rooting for you!

**Ann:** Just remember, don’t get it in your eyes, it hurts like a bitch.

**Ryuji:** Y DO U KNOW THIS

**Ann:** Bad aim. Good luck!!

 

 

 

It’s a surprise when Ryuji pushes himself into Akira’s space, crawls onto him, cages him between arms and knees; Ryuji’s never been one for full-frontal attacks, preferring the safety of having his face buried in Akira’s back, arms wrapped around his waist. Today, though, today he’s on the warpath, pressing clumsy kisses into Akira’s mouth, down his jaw, settling down over him like a blanket.

Akira basks in the attention.

Maybe this is what all those shifty looks were about; working himself up to get the courage to do this face-to-face for once. Ryuji’s never been a coward, Akira knows they would’ve gotten here sooner or later, but he’d been positive it would’ve taken some prodding from his end.

Ryuji’s teeth scrape against the sensitive hollow of his throat and he groans, tipping his head back, letting Ryuji have as much access as he wants. It’s the right move; he does it again, all soft lips and stubble-rough cheeks and hard nips. Akira can’t quite suppress the full-body shudder when Ryuji captures a bit of skin between his teeth and _sucks_ ; they’ve never left marks on each other before.

He’s flushed when he pulls back, looking at Akira from under half-lidded eyes. It’s an unusual look on him; almost coquettish, teasing. Akira raises an eyebrow in response, and Ryuji bites his lower lip.

“I wanna do somethin’ new today,” he blurts out, startling them both. “I—“

“Yeah?” Akira is _immediately_ invested. “Whatever you want.”

“Whatever?” There’s a blush spreading across his cheekbones, all but obscuring the faint spray of freckles that dot along his nose and cheeks. “For real? You’re sure?”

“Whatever.” He doesn’t purr the word intentionally, but that’s how it comes out. The sight of Ryuji swallowing more than makes up for it. He’s desperately interested in what Ryuji wants, now; maybe he’ll ask Akira to do something.

Like put his mouth on Ryuji’s cock. Something he’s wanted to do for _ages._

“Alright,” Ryuji mumbles to himself, looking as if he’s psyching himself up. “Okay. Then—I want you to lie down. Glasses off. And, uh—hands behind your head.”

Oh, now _this_ is fun. This is definitely going in a direction Akira wants to see play out. He follows Ryuji’s instructions to the letter, dropping his glasses off to the side of the bed somewhere, pillowing his head on his hands. “This good?”

“Mmm. Not quite. Just—close your eyes.”

“Alright.” He does so, the world going dark behind his eyelids. As much as he’d like to see Ryuji’s face when he licks him, if this is easier—

Ryuji’s hands tug his wrists up from behind his head, wrapping something soft around them.

Uh.

Before he can do more than blink, there’s something wrapping around his eyes too. A blindfold. It’s thick enough that he can’t see any light when he opens his eyes.

Definitely not where he thought this was going. “Ryuji?”

“Bear with me.” There’s a tug on his bound wrists. He extends them upwards complacently; the binding is loose enough that if he really wanted to wriggle free he could.

He doesn’t really want to.

There’s something intriguing about this lack of control.

There’s a soft noise and a few more tugs; when Ryuji releases him he tests the bindings again. It feels like his wrists are tied to the chair at the foot of the bed. It’s not uncomfortable; he has a decent range of motion, but he’s only just now starting to realize how exposed it leaves him.

He doesn’t really have a reason to feel exposed. He’s safe. There’s no one but Ryuji here.

Ryuji, who’s shoving his shirt up his ribs as far as it’ll go. They really should’ve thought the whole disrobing thing through before now. “Need to untie me?”

“Need to be untied?” Ryuji shoots back immediately, and Akira shakes his head. “Nah, then. This is good.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah.” There’s something low and throaty in Ryuji’s voice, something dark and satisfied, something that makes his cock give an interested twitch. “Real good.”

It’s weird not being able to see his face. “Enjoying the view?”

“Yeah.” Akira jerks a bit when Ryuji’s fingertips stroke down his stomach. It’s weird not being able to see _anything._ He’s got no way to anticipate where pressure is going to come from and how best to prepare for it.

There’s a dip in pressure to the side of him, and a warm puff of air on his face; then Ryuji’s kissing him again deep and insistent. Akira opens up for him willingly, eagerly even, arching into his touch as Ryuji’s hand skates across his chest.

It feels _good._ It’s _nice_ to be touched so intimately, even as his arms prickle with goosebumps and the tiny hairs on the back of his neck raise up in defense. He’s torn between enjoying the situation and being distracted at being so _vulnerable,_ and when Ryuji’s hand trails across his ribs he barely aborts his knee-jerk reaction.

Literally. His knee meets Ryuji’s side as a soft nudge instead of a weaponized movement, and Ryuji just—pushes it aside like an afterthought, forces it down to the bed again like it’s _nothing._

He’s not in control here. The stray thought sends a jolt of heat down his spine.

Ryuji settles between Akira’s thighs more fully, breaking away from Akira’s mouth, giving them both some time to breathe. The air between them is warm with expectation, almost stiflingly so. “Y’okay?” he murmurs, and Akira doesn’t trust his voice enough to do more than nod. “Good. Cause we’re nowhere near done.”

His thumb drags up the line of Akira’s cock, an interested presence tenting the front of his pants, then casually makes short work of them. From the way he moves, it feels like he dumps them over the side of the bed. His boxers go the same way, leaving him bare from the chest down, Ryuji’s knees warm under his thighs as he pushes Akira’s knees apart.

God, he’s so _exposed._ Every brush of air makes him shiver. He can’t tell where Ryuji’s looking, or what he’s doing. He wants to _know._ Is he staring? Is he enthralled? If Akira was in his place, he sure as hell would be.

What is his plan? Just to keep Akira here, sprawled haphazardly across his lap? What’s his endgame?

Not knowing is _maddening._

Ryuji finally moves, touches his thigh, strokes up and down lazily. “How you feelin’?” he asks, infuriatingly normal, as if they’re sitting at school or hanging out at the arcade, and not with Akira tied up and mostly-naked in his lap.

“Fine,” he grits out. “You?”

“Just fine?” He sounds amused, like he’s got that little shit-eating grin on his face, the one Akira loves to see, cause it usually means he’s got something wild up his sleeve. “Can’t have that.”

“Fine is fine.” Ryuji shifts under him, reaches down for something. There’s a pop and a snap, and the next time Ryuji touches him his hands are foreign and smooth. “Latex gloves?”

“Just wait for it.” Unbearably smug. He touches the head of Akira’s cock with one finger. It’s a new and not unpleasant sensation, especially when he slicks it back and forth. Smooth. He can see why Ryuji likes it.

He takes his hand away for another moment, leaving Akira to settle, bring his breathing back into line. When it comes back it’s artificially slick; when Ryuji closes his hand around the tip and pumps twice it feels like pure sin. Akira can’t help but groan and tilt his hips into it. “Kinky,” he murmurs, “having me all tied up like this for your convenience.”

“Not my convenience I’m worried about,” Ryuji mutters, probably thinking Akira won’t be able to make out the words, and gives him a long squeeze from root to tip that sends him spinning. He can’t feel the callouses on Ryuji’s palm like this, but between the latex and the lube every motion is… it’s incredible. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. “Y’like that?”

“’s not bad.” That was the wrong answer; Ryuji’s hand stills. “I mean—it’s good. Really.”

He makes a noise of discontent but tightens his grip again, gets a steady rhythm going and lets Akira rut into the tight grasp of his hand. Ryuji has an innate knack for the smoothest rhythms, the best tempos, and it’s not long before his breaths go shallow and his stomach tightens, that swooping, dizzying feeling right before he—

Before—

“Ryuji?!” he grits out, because Ryuji’s _pulled his hand away_ , leaving him balanced on the edge, unable to teeter over by himself.

“What?” Ryuji says, and _oh_ , the sound of faux innocence coming from that shit-eating grin, Akira could kiss him and punch him, maybe both at the same time. “Sorry, were we in the middle of somethin’?” His thumb skids across Akira’s tip, making him gasp and cant his hips, angling for that last bit of friction. But the rhythm is all wrong now; each little teasing brush just digs under his skin, too slow and off-tempo. It’s too little too late, and he feels himself slipping back from the edge, arousal settling to a slow simmer low in his gut.

Before he can become more than mildly irritated about it, Ryuji nudges his thighs even further apart, tugs him higher onto his lap. Akira is flexible, more so than the average person—perks of being a phantom thief—but this is a stretch even for him, splayed out so far. His other hand (also gloved) rests at the crest of his hip, idly stroking back and forth. “Told you we weren’t done.”

“What—“ His question is cut off when Ryuji’s hand moves lower to cup his balls.

This is new territory. As confident as Ryuji’s been getting, he’s never touched lower than—

Train of thought lost when Ryuji rolls them thoughtfully. It’s a strange sensation, not altogether pleasant. He must be making a face, because Ryuji laughs and paps him once on the stomach.

Then—

Oh.

There’s—

Is he—

Ryuji’s finger is—prodding. Pressing. Rubbing. Very gently. It—he squirms, but Ryuji holds him fast, bears down a little harder.

Till he— _hn,_ presses _inside._

Akira makes some sort of noise, he’s sure, but he can barely hear anything over the sudden frenzied pounding of his heart. His entire awareness is narrowed to the feel of the bindings on his wrists, the hand on his hip, the _finger_ up his _ass._ It—it doesn’t feel _bad,_ just _weird,_ and he can’t move away, not with Ryuji holding him fast, nudging in further, till he can feel knuckles brush against the curve of his ass.

He feels like he’s burning.

Ryuji’s free hand wraps around his cock and strokes, jolting him back into awareness. He’s flagged a bit, but Ryuji’s touch perks him back up, even as the finger starts moving.

Explains the gloves, at least.

“You’re so red,” Ryuji murmurs under his breath, even as he crooks his finger, makes Akira jolt again. “This too much?”

He considers. It’s weird, but…weirdly pleasant. Uncomfortably intimate in a way he’s never experienced. It’s Ryuji, pushing his boundaries for nefarious purposes.

His mouth goes a bit dry as he makes a rather late connection. “Are you planning on fucking me?” he asks hoarsely. It’s not something he’s thought about before—most of his fantasies involved hands and mouths, but he’s not sheltered. He’s heard things. Read things. Watched things. He knows the sorts of things two guys can get up to with a little hard work.

He just wasn’t planning on Ryuji to ask so soon.

Ryuji clearly wasn’t either, though. “ _What?!_ ” he all but screeches, pulling out of him in a motion that feels like reflex. “I—no?? I mean— no? That wasn’t—I—“

He shifts as if to move away completely. Akira’s knees clamp down on him before he can do more than that. “Just wanted to clarify. Don’t go—“

“Shit, dude. ‘M not going anywhere, but y’can’t just spring that on a guy!” Ryuji laughs, though it’s more as a relief of tension than it is of humor. His hands grip Akira’s hips, still slick with traces of lube. “I just—look, this is okay, right? This isn’t too much? You’re good?”

He’d give anything to be able to see Ryuji’s face right now. His voice is too tense, his hold too firm. Akira yanks at his wrists without thinking, grimacing when it pulls the binding on his wrists tighter. “What brought this around?” he settles on asking.

Ryuji grumbles low in his throat. “You—everything you do to me is so mind-blowing. I just—wanted somethin’ that’d blow your mind too. You’re always so calm ‘n composed. Just…wanted to see how you’d be when you aren’t. Wanted to make you feel like you make me feel.”

Akira has a lot of words that could be said to that, all of them some variation of “I love you.”

“Besides,” Ryuji adds carelessly, “Ann told me edging’s in these days.”

He can’t help but sputter a laugh at that, full-bodied and free. It’s so Ann, so _Ryuji_ , and for a transcendental moment he’s just… _happy._

Whatever he’s done to deserve Ryuji he’d do a thousand times over again, just to be able to re-live this moment.

Ryuji chuckles with him, but there’s still a hint of nervousness in the air. Akira’s happy to put it to rest. “Ryuji, you can do whatever you want to me. Whatever you want to dish out. I’m not going to complain about a free orgasm. I trust you.” _I love you._ “Though…maybe we’ll revisit the actual fucking in a bit.”

“Yeah.” He sounds relieved, but also disappointed in a way that makes Akira want to grin. “So, uh—“ He wiggles his fingers against Akira’s hip. “Did we kill the mood, or—“

“If you try and leave after getting me all worked up there’s going to be hell to pay,” Akira warns. “You literally have me tied up and blindfolded. I was expecting something kinkier.”

“…What do you mean?”

“Well, you straddling my shoulders and telling me to suck you off, for one.”

There’s a bit of a choking noise at that. “Seriously?! That’s what your mind goes to first?”

He shrugs. “It’s on my mind a lot.”

“Oh.” It’s more of an exhalation than a word. Ryuji’s hand wraps loosely around his cock again, gentler this time, coaxing him back to life for the third time since they started. “Uh. How much is a lot?”

“It’s a lot?” He makes a noise of discontent when Ryuji stops, but it’s just so that he can add a touch more lube to his palm. “Often.” There’s that gentle press again, almost a question. He nods, sighs as Ryuji slips back inside. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Uh, _I_ think it’s a big deal.” Ryuji shifts, the hand stroking him slowing down to hold tight at the base of his cock, angling it strangely. The finger inside crooks up like Ryuji’s beckoning him from across the room and he hisses—it’s weird and warm and full and dizzying, as worked up as he already is. “Um. Just. Hold still a minute.”

His finger slips out, then presses back with another, and—

“Fuck!” Akira gasps, and does his utter fucking best to remain motionless, because Ryuji’s tongue swipes across the head of his cock, warm and wet and welcoming. “Ryuji, you don’t—“

“Shuddup,” he mumbles. “I wanna.” He makes the same motion with both fingers and Akira can’t stifle the groan that escapes. “Feels good?”

“Feels great.” Ryuji licks him again, just the barest pressure of tongue.

Then he takes him fully into his mouth and _sucks_ , and Akira all but loses it.

It’s pleasure on too many fronts, the hot pressure of Ryuji’s mouth, the radiating warmth every time his fingers dig into that _spot_ , his absolute inability to reciprocate—Ryuji truly has him bound in more than one sense of the word. All he can do is hang on for the ride, whisper Ryuji’s name, unable to hold back the gasps that slip out.

He sounds disgustingly wanton. He can’t bring himself to care, especially when Ryuji gives him another enthusiastic suck. “Ryuji— _ah_ , god, Ryuji, please—“

He honest-to-god whimpers when Ryuji pulls off of him with a wet-sounding pop, yanking at the chair he’s bound to. He wants to be able to bury his hands in Ryuji’s hair, cradle his face, see the look in his eyes, wants to tell him he’s cherished, he’s perfect, he’s so good, he’s _loved_. “You look so good like this,” Ryuji murmurs, every word making his lips brush against Akira’s oversensitive cock, making it jerk. “Like—I’ve never seen you like this. Cause of me.”

“All you. Always,” Akira pants, pulling at the chair again. “ _Ryuji._ Do you want me to beg—“

“Later,” he chuckles, making it sound like a promise as his fingers curl inside again, sending dizzying pleasure spiraling through him. His hips jerk as he tries to press back, head thrashing—god, it’s too little, it’s too much, he’s so close, and then Ryuji’s palm closes around his tip, slick and warm, just the right amount of pressure, jerking him fast and sloppy and it’s good, it’s so good, Ryuji, _Ryuji—_

He sees stars, and every one of them wears Ryuji’s smile.

 

After he comes down, after the bliss and the aftershocks, after Ryuji cleans him up and unties him, they lay curled together, sharing the same space, the same air. Akira keeps their hands tangled; Ryuji keeps tilting his head to press kisses to Akira’s temple, or the corner of his eye. He’s exhausted and boneless and sleepy and _satiated_ ; he doesn’t know if he’s ever been this relaxed in his entire life.

Ryuji’s got something else on his mind, though. He keeps shuffling, tracing his fingers along the outsides of Akira’s, taking a deep breath and then letting it out. “Spit it out, ‘yuji,” he murmurs at last, hooking one of his calves around Ryuji’s legs. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says immediately. Akira makes a disbelieving sound. “Really. I just… you were babblin’ a bit before you…y’know.”

“Mm? What’d I say?” He frees one hand to reach up and card through Ryuji’s hair, resting his palm at the back of his neck.

“Well…” He hesitates. Swallows. Takes a breath. Akira gives him a gentle squeeze in encouragement. “Y’kinda said you loved me.”

“Oh.”

“Among other things. You were pretty out of it.” There’s a hint of smugness in his voice, beyond the hesitation. Akira grins in response, but keeps his eyes closed. “I just—“

“It’s true.” He’s said it already, it might as well be out in the air fully. “I meant it.”

“Oh.” It’s a soft noise, sweet and surprised, and Ryuji bonks his forehead gently against Akira’s. “For real?”

“For real.” He presses back, shifts till there’s barely an inch of free space between their bodies. “You’re fantastic, Ryuji. I’ve never felt for anyone the way I feel about you.”

“Yeah,” Ryuji says hoarsely. “Same.”

“Cool.”

“Cool?! That’s it? I’m confessin’ my feelings to you and all you gotta say is ‘cool’?”

“I confessed first, and all you said was “nnghn, Akira—“

“Well, that’s cause I was in the middle of gettin’ off! That doesn’t count!”

Akira _laughs_ , and Ryuji makes a garbled noise, props himself up on his elbow, and kisses him into silence. “Date me,” he demands, scattering a flurry of kisses all over Akira’s face. “Date me so I have the right to do this all the time. Someone’s gotta shut you up.”

“It might as well be you,” Akira agrees, and drags him back down into the blankets.

 

 

 

**Ann:** Did you guys forget we were all going to meet up for dinner tonight?

**Ann:** Helloooo, earth to Akira, this sushi isn’t gonna eat itself!

**Ann:** Futaba’s feeding your share to Morgana.

**Akira:** shit sorry

**Akira:** busy doin things

**Ann:** Ryuji, why do you have Akira’s phone? Is everything okay?

**Akira:** hes asleep shh

**Akira:** had a hard day

**Akira:** v hard haha

**Ann:** YOU DID IT?!

**Akira:** B)

**Akira:** sacked the eff out

**Akira:** ryuji is the king of sex

**Akira:** hold on gotta screenshot that n send it to myself so i can use it for arguments

**Ann:** Don’t bother, did it for you.

**Akira:** this is why ur the best

**Ann:** Of course it is.

**Ann:** But in all seriousness, I’m happy for you.

**Akira:** im happy too

**Akira:** really happy

**Akira:** shit hes wakin up

**Ann:** We’ll bring some leftovers for you. Be there in an hour.

**Akira:** knock b4 u come up if u dont wanna see guys bein dudes

**Ann:** I’ll have my camera at the ready!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this work was a labor of love. i never planned on making a sequel to caught red-handed (hell, i never meant to make caught red-handed in the first place but those gloves man) but the support you guys gave was absolutely ridiculous. i love these boys, i love p5, and i love all of you for being so incredibly supportive and leaving me such nice comments (and all these kudos, holy hell ;u;) thank you all so much!!!!! you're all so kind!!!!!
> 
> please feel free to come hit me up at my tumblr [cant-icle!](http://cant-icle.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> you guys are so astoundingly astonishingly nice, i actually weep  
> unbeta'd, if you find anything egregiously wrong hella hmu  
> the shame that i feel for not being able to come up with a suitable pun for the title is eternal and everlasting  
> my p5 tumblr is [cant-icle!!](cant-icle.tumblr.com) pls come yell with me!!! i like to talk about things!!


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